This article was produced by Capital & Main. It is published here with permission.

We are in the living room of our small home in East Los Angeles when an immigration agent takes me away.

That’s the dream Quetzal, my 9-year-old daughter, describes to me in a near-whisper. I ask her to use her powerful voice, the one she uses to answer teachers’ questions at school. But I can barely hear her over the sound of Tzunuum, her 5-year-old sister, practicing piano in the next room.

In Quetzal’s dream, her sister is playing piano when there’s a heavy knock at the door. Tzunuum runs to open it, while Quetzal and I follow her to find a man on our porch who refuses to identify himself. Then, suddenly, I am gone, Quetzal says, and she and her sister are left crying.

I’ve been reporting on how the T

See Full Page